


Takes All Kinds

by irisbleufic



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Canon Character of Color, M/M, POV Character of Color, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-01
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2018-01-01 04:45:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1040485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three glimpses of Alfred and Lucius down through the years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Takes All Kinds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts, even proved wrong, become _things_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written and posted to LJ in September of 2008.

When they'd first met, it hadn't been instant fireworks—that was for sure.

Lucius remembers finding Alfred's glib, changeable sense of humor forced and possibly even _fake_. His first impression, however, had been short-lived: within two weeks of being taken on at Wayne Industries, he'd been asked up to the Manor for a private staff-and-family soirée. Much to Lucius's surprise, after packing Bruce off to bed—cute enough kid, if unnacountably anxious—Alfred had reappeared with a tissue-wrapped, bottle-shaped parcel under one arm.

"Would you care to join me for a drink or several?" he'd asked Lucius, not missing a beat. It was as if the butler (crude, _crude_ to think of him as such, but Lucius's internal snideness hadn't quite subsided) had sought him out on the very pretense that he'd tried so hard to disguise: _not liking him_. So much for discretion.

"What's your poison?" Lucius had asked, genuinely curious.

"If I were to tell you," Alfred had replied, his voice full of surprising warmth, "that would take all the fun out of it, now wouldn't it? Come on, then."

Three hours later, his head swimming and his tongue still tripping over personal anecdotes past and present, it had occurred to Lucius to ask what on God's green earth they were drinking. It was _heavenly_.

"It's a vintage port out of the Douro valley," Alfred had informed him, only the heightened ruddiness of his cheeks belying the extent of his inebriation. "Forty-six, already scarce. Where were you that year, if you don't mind my asking, sir?"

"I told you, it's just _Lucius_. And hell, I don't know—I was probably out drinking with somebody just like now, except we'd have been...well, not in a house as fine as this. Why is it important? Where were _you_?"

"Master Wayne thinks well of you," Alfred had said, clapping him companionably on the shoulder. "And so do I."

"You didn't answer my question."

"I was in the middle of the jungle, chasing thugs for a foreign government. And by foreign, I mean my _own_. Well, and Burma's, but you can hardly blame _them_."

Lucius had at least had the good grace to wait until the second date to ask _why_. He had owed Alfred that much, he figured, and by then, they'd been on a comfortable first-name basis. Granted, it hadn't been until the third or fourth date—he'd only begun to think of them as such jokingly—when Alfred had borrowed some Dutch courage directly from the Laphroaig bottle and asked, politely as ever, if Lucius intended to get on with making the first move, because, if not, by _God_ , he _would_.

And that was when Lucius knew for certain he deserved all the ass-biting and irony that fate could possibly dish out. Alfred was his kind of man, all right, and there was no use turning down a perfectly respectable invitation. 

The fireworks had come later, and, to this day—no small thanks to the troubled child Alfred had once sung to sleep—they're still going strong.


	2. Takes All Kinds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for Lonelywalker in the 2009 [**gd_alfredlucius**](http://gd_alfredlucius.livejournal.com) Valentine's Exchange. Her request was for a piece addressing issues of race and class, which is obviously tricky, loaded territory given that one of these protagonists is a POC and the other is serving-class.
> 
>  **WARNING:** This ficlet contains the use of a racial slur by Lucius, to quote [someone](http://drhermannhottlieb.tumblr.com/) who phrased it much more succinctly than I can, in the context of "a rueful comment in order to expose the absurdity of [the] situation." Alfred reacts the way he does because Brits tend to be intensely uncomfortable with such slurs in a way that I _wish_ Americans were. If I've failed to convey the context to a sufficient extent in this warning, I fully accept responsibility for said failure. I've always refused to flinch away from the inconvenient truths of history. The flashback reference in the first paragraph is set in a much earlier decade than film canon.

They'd never have anything resembling a date, not in the classic sense of the term. Thirty years ago, when they'd first met, it had been difficult enough to persuade Alfred away from his duties more than once or twice a week, let alone for an entire week _end_. Once, Lucius had jokingly asked him which of them he thought had it harder: the hired help or the nigger. Alfred hadn't found that funny in the least. It was the first and last time Lucius had ever gotten a door slammed in his face by someone he loved. It had taken Alfred a month to come back around, at which point Lucius had armed himself with a reasonably priced bottle of madeira and every apology he could conjure.

"My dear, I thought you'd never ask," Alfred had said, wryly, and let him in.

Looking back on the conversation, it was probably the most necessary they'd ever had. Imagine Lucius's surprise upon discovering the sheer extent of the disdain reserved for someone of Alfred's station in England—they were all the same _color_ , for crying out loud. In America, at least, you understood why people hated you, never mind how fucking wrong it was. Lucius was sure at least one of his great-grandparents had been a slave. Knowing that, Alfred had asked him, already several glasses of madeira gone, how could he have used such loaded words so _bloody_ carelessly?

"I don't know," Lucius had confessed, after a few moments of drunken silence. "It's what we do, sometimes. How we cope. Do you mean to tell me your parents never tried to make you smile in spite of it all? Lighten the load a bit?"

Alfred had chuckled, then, finally. "Of course they did. But it wouldn't have been proper to laugh. I hadn't quite earned the right, had I, having been so young?"

As far as Lucius could see, nothing that the Waynes had ever done to either of them would have counted as cruelty. And yet, there was still some hidden knowledge, some sense of the inescapable: Lucius was very fortunate, and Alfred was the closest thing to a slave that the Land of the Free would (openly) permit. Sure, it rankled.

Down the years, they'd both seen changes. Even as Lucius's job had grown in prestige and the responsibilities attached to it had more than doubled (as had the pay), Alfred's had gained a sort of antiquated grandeur. What was more, being attached to the Wayne household meant precious little anonymity for anyone. Even employees and household staff—cautious, now, so _careful_ with his words, even in thought—could expect a measure of recognition when passed in the street. And it had been easy, so very _simple_ , to pry Alfred away in the wake of Bruce's disappearance. They might as well have started holding hands in public, Lucius supposed. That was how often they'd spent time together, at least for a little while. Twelve months on, Alfred's half-formed grief had given way to steely resolve—he had the business and the estate to think of, and the brains and know-how to back it up. From hired help to CEO: that was how Lucius liked to think of him, tucked away all the long hours amidst gadgets he'd never know what to do with. None of them would. Not until Bruce's startling return.

Lucius had known no relief greater than being asked back to Wayne Manor, even if it _was_ to save the damn-fool boy's life. Once Bruce had been properly sedated, Alfred hadn't even bothered with the pretense of tea and biscuits. One look and they'd gone straight to bed. That was how Lucius had first learned of Alfred's nightmares, which he'd never had to the best of Lucius's knowledge, not even back when there was still some sense that they were second-class citizens at best and it was, maybe, just them against Gotham. Lucius hadn't had the heart to wake Alfred; he'd run the first check on Bruce's progress himself. Stable, improving by the minute. Was it guilt more than grief that had driven him to do what he'd done, to scorn the life he'd inherited? Would he have the strength to maintain a mask that was half farce and half true, what when he still employed them both, when they knew much more than met the eye?

"It's a small price to say," Alfred said, his eyes still and tired where they fell on the fire in the grate. "Bruce Wayne doesn't pay me to have an opinion of him in public, and in any case, we know his esteem for what it's really worth."

"But nobody else does," Lucius reminded him, touching the back of Alfred's hand. "For all they know, he keeps me around because I amuse him, and he keeps you because he wouldn't know his ass from a hole in the ground otherwise."

"I don't like this logic," Alfred said, closing his eyes and covering Lucius's hand with his own. "Let it be. He knows what we are. _We_ know what we are."

"True," said Lucius. All things considered, he preferred this kind of date to any other.


	3. A Man and His Drink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally written and posted to LJ in August 2008 to fulfil the _Alfred/Lucius, old-guy sex, Bruce walking in_ prompt on the Batman Kink Meme. I'd also promised more of this to a dear old friend, Cimness, so there you are.

Lucius hated to admit it, but he'd gotten used to the peace and quiet. Unfortunately, the Lau affair and Bruce's resulting demands had begun a swift downward spiral that ended, time and again, in a string of relentless encounters with a maniac in face-paint who seemed to think he was damned near indestructible. And as far as Lucius could tell, _hell_ —the guy probably _was_ , especially since half of Bruce's equipment always needed repairing. These were sufficient grounds to drive a man to drink. _Hard_.

"Good thing I brought the Laphroaig, then," said Alfred, hanging his coat in one brisk gesture. Lucius's eyes followed him as he bent to remove his shoes, marveling at the economy Alfred managed in his every move even after all these years. Caught in the act, he smiled. If he kissed Alfred now, would they even get around to drinking?

"The thirty-one year single-malt, dare I hope?" Lucius reached for the bag.

"The very one," Alfred confirmed, his lips quirking as he held it just beyond Lucius's fingertips. "I thought we might have a bit of supper first? Save this for after."

"If you'd like to risk my dubious cooking, sure," Lucius said, leaning in just enough to get hold of the weighty parcel and wrest it away from Alfred. He carried it over to the coffee table and sat down on the sofa, removing the bottle reverently. Let it not be said that the perks of working for Wayne Industries didn't extend to after-hours. Alfred joined him, sighing as he relaxed back into the upholstery.

"Long day?" Lucius asked, raising an eyebrow. Wistfully, he set the bottle aside.

"The usual," said Alfred, somewhat tight-lipped.

"I have no idea?"

"Not quite. Actually, you probably do."

"Let me guess: his injuries have gotten out of hand? You should see the stuff he brings back to me. Sheepish as a kid who's broken his new toys on Christmas morning."

"Actually, his arm's healed up quite nicely," Alfred amitted, reaching for the bottle. He loosened the cap in one forceful twist. "Where do you keep your glasses _this_ week?"

"Same as last time, no tricks," said Lucius, rising eagerly to his feet. "I'll get them. You were saying—?"

"Last time," Alfred mused, passing the open bottle beneath his nostrils and taking a deep, appreciative breath. "If I recall correctly, that was New Year's. You don't invite me nearly often enough." Mildly accusatory, that last jab. Even _coy_. Lucius was impressed that they could surprise each other even now.

"To be fair, you don't take much time off," said Lucius, returning with a pair of tumblers. "And I always feel safer when I'm on your side of the fence. On _all_ our accounts," he added, setting down the glasses and taking the bottle off of Alfred. "What would Bruce do if an emergency cropped up and you weren't there?"

"Think once instead of twice," said Alfred, accepting the whiskey all too gratefully.

"What was that nonsense about a bit of supper?" Lucius asked, swilling his own glass.

"It can wait," said Alfred, offering a perfunctory toast. "Here's hoping no emergencies crop up tonight. I shall be very annoyed if one does."

"Cheers to that," Lucius agreed, clinking the lip of his tumbler against Alfred's. They sipped the whisky in silence, savoring the rich, smoked-caramel burn of it. There couldn't be many bottles of this priceless treasure left, not even in Bruce's cellar.

"Now," Alfred said, swiftly knocking back the rest, "I believe we had plans?"

"Not so fast!" Lucius jokingly held him off with one arm, finishing what was left in his glass in a few awkward swallows. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, which Alfred promptly caught and kissed. _Touché_.

"My sincerest apologies. Nothing should come between a man and his drink."

"Technically speaking, it's not my drink," said Lucius, confiscating Alfred's tumbler and setting both on the table beside the bottle. "I'm eternally at your good graces."

"Oh, I wouldn't say they're graces," said Alfred, leaning forward ever so slightly.

So they hadn't gotten to do as much drinking as Lucius had hoped: one tumbler was a start, a few shots' worth, something to make the head swim pleasantly while they kissed. The space between encounters seemed all too vast these days; it didn't sit well with Lucius's sense of what a committed relationship ought to be, clandestine or otherwise. The fact that they worked for the same man both complicated matters and made life easier. Being in the same sphere of influence was a blessing in disguise, although Bruce's increasingly more chaotic night-life had them each on edge, perpetually at desperate beck-and-call. They'd both grown reclusive.

"Of course," Lucius managed, blinking until the spots no longer obscured his view of Alfred's hand efficiently working its way down his shirt buttons, "if Bruce were to, say, get himself poisoned again, then we _might_ just get another two days out of it."

"As much as I appreciate the sentiment, I wouldn't joke about it," Alfred said, although his distraction took some of the edge off the tartness of his words.

"Forget I mentioned it," Lucius said, reaching for Alfred's collar. And then, more softly: "I'm sorry. I should know better. This past year hasn't been easy on any of us."

"I'm not counting," murmured Alfred, lingering over the backs of Lucius's hands. "No good to dwell on it."

"No," Lucius agreed, running both palms from Alfred's collarbone to his belt. "I suppose not."

There would have been little logic in relocating to the bedroom. It wasn't every day that one had a surprisingly pliant Alfred Pennyworth at one's disposal, and Lucius intended to take full advantage of the situation. Besides, the sofa was large enough for two grown men and then some, and there was a kind of long-lost, teenagers-again excitement to the fact that they were already more than half naked. Lucius almost tripped getting out of his trousers. Alfred, stretched out on the cushions, held that elusive, laughing affection in his glance and beckoned.

" _Somebody's_ asking for it," Lucius said, stumbling back to his side.

As for what _it_ was, he wasn't going to give Alfred the chance to ask. Desperation closed in around them, out of the ever-present darkness that they both struggled to hold at bay with each passing moment. Lucius had meant for this evening to be light-hearted, he was sure of it, but when one had Alfred Pennyworth's voice low and commanding in his ear— _yes_ and _Lucius_ and _my dear_ —it wasn't wise to ask questions.

Until, dimly, one realized that the faint knocking in the background hadn't been coming from next door after all and that the door, which Lucius had failed to lock, was swinging decidedly inward. The accompanying voice was worried and unmistakable.

"Lucius? _Lucius_ , are you—oh. _Oh_. Look, I'll just leave this and—"

" _Fuck_ ," Alfred muttered, almost knocking Lucius on the floor in his haste to sit up and gather in his shirt. Good thing they hadn't gotten past the boxers, but that offered little comfort. It was _embarrassing_ , plain and simple.

"Bruce, don't worry about it," Lucius called over his shoulder, quickly retrieving his trousers and pulling them back on. "Whatever it is, you can just set it next to the door and I'll—" Lucius stood up, but Bruce was already halfway out the door.

"Sorry. When I didn't find you at work, I just thought I'd stop by and—well, your door was open, and that's rarely a good sign, so I thought— _um_. Good night, Alfred. I'm _not_ following you, for the record." The last thing he did was drop the arm-guards, and one of the blades went flying. It ricocheted harmlessly off the base of the coat-rack.

Shaking, Lucius sat back down and rubbed his forehead. "Well, that's a buzz-kill."

"Sure enough." Alfred was staring at Bruce's arm-guards over the back of the couch. "What's he expect you to do with those, I wonder? They seem to be in full working order."

"You'd be surprised," Lucius sighed. "They're not. I have a few bugs to work out."

"Right, then," Alfred said, sitting up straight beside him. "I suggest that we relocate this party," he continued, taking up the bottle in one hand and the tumblers in the other, "to a more private location. In the meantime, you'd do well to lock that door. Bruce may not be following _me_ , but God only knows who's following _him_. Our recent gate-crashers weren't nearly so congenial."

Lucius strode to the door and threw the bolt, glancing over his shoulder. Alfred was already waiting in the low light of the hall, swigging straight from the bottle.

 _Still my kind of man_ , Lucius thought, and hurried to join him.


End file.
